


I'll shoot the moon right out of the sky for you, baby

by non_canonical



Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: 1918, F/M, Missing Scene, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/non_canonical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal and Lady Catherine find themselves with time to kill.  And there's nothing like summoning the Devil to ramp up the sexual tension.  <i>(Set during 5x01 The Trinity.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll shoot the moon right out of the sky for you, baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> _Being Human_ belongs to Toby Whithouse and the BBC.  Title taken from Tom Waits.

Hal smells her even before the door opens: a whiff of something animal, something dangerous, that tickles his nostrils and sets his nerves tingling.  It's not just her.  Three other dogs follow at her heels, trooping into his private study, and the place will have to be fumigated when they're gone.

He greets her with a smile.  "Lady Catherine."

"Lord Hal." She smiles back, but that big, ugly bastard at her shoulder is glaring at Hal and cracking his knuckles.  There's a dagger in Hal's belt, and silver bullets in his pistol, but that isn't the sort of fun that Hal is interested in tonight.

"Afraid of what might happen if you're left alone with me?" Hal taunts, and the anger that burns across Catherine's face puts him in mind of their last encounter.  His body still aches with the memory of that visit.  It's rare for him to be left unsatisfied, but some things are worth a little patience.

"Wait outside," Catherine orders, and she closes the door on her bodyguards.

They eye each other warily.  Hal takes a step towards her, but her jaw tightens and her hand darts towards her coat – where, no doubt, that ridiculous bloody stake is concealed.  He's wondering what else is concealed under that bundled clothing.  Creamy skin and old scars, and he wants to open up that unseen territory, but this one won't be won with flowers and poetry.

"All it will take," she warns him, with a nod towards the door, "is one shout from me."

"Then I promise not to make you scream," he tells her, because sometimes a direct attack is best.  "Not unless you want me to."

Hal turns away.  "Where are my manners?" he says.  "Can I offer you a drink?"

His hand settles on the nearest decanter.  It's his own personal supply, and it doesn't take a werewolf's senses to know that the contents are not wine.  But Hal likes to push, likes to see the woman scowling and unsettled, even as her hand clutches something deadly inside her pocket.  He pushes the decanter aside, even though he's hungry.  He's hungry for all sorts of things, and indignation makes Catherine's skin flush deliciously.  Hal reaches for the brandy.

"They do have rather a good cellar here." He holds out a glass; she doesn't take it.  "Don't worry, it isn't poisoned."

Catherine smiles at that, and when she pulls her hand from her pocket it's empty.  Her fingers linger against his as she accepts the drink, and the touch is enough to send a warm wash of arousal through him.

He offers her a toast: "To our alliance."

Catherine's glass touches his.  "To the future." Her lips part; she tips her head back and swallows, and that stretch of skin is enticing, even if it's full of poison.  Hal clears his throat.

"And what does the future hold in store?" He surprises himself by wanting to hear the answer.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On you," – She steps closer, and there's a question in her eyes – "and whether you intend to turn this cease-fire into something more permanent."

"Peace?" he scoffs.  "Sounds tedious."

"There are still plenty of people who want you dead.  That should stop you becoming bored."

"Don't worry about me." His eyes wander to the lush curve of her lips.  "I can always find ways to entertain myself." The frown, he thinks, only adds to her appeal.

"I've heard the stories of your entertainments."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it."

Catherine reaches round him to place her glass on the table.  Hal breathes in perfume and gun oil, and just a hint of acid blood.  She's close now, indecently close, but he wants her closer still, wants her pulsing warmth against him.

Now it's her turn to take a step back.  "Business before pleasure." There's a glint in her eye that sends a thrill of anticipation right down to the base of his spine.  She drops her gaze, straight to his groin, and her mouth quirks into a smile.  "Is that a bottle of blood in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?"

"It's a hip flask, actually." He sets the thing down on the table.  "But that doesn't mean I'm not pleased to see you." Her curls tease his cheek as he murmurs in her ear, "I've shown you mine, now you show me yours."

"Is this what you're after?" Blood – wolf blood – fresh and pungent.  Hal flinches back.

"A little healthy caution never hurts," he replies to her mocking smile.

"And I thought you were the kind of man who enjoys taking risks."

"I prefer to bet on a sure thing."

Catherine wields the glass tube like a weapon, driving him back, and Hal's spine thumps into the bookcase.  The blood disappears into Catherine's pocket, and then he couldn't care less about the blood or the danger, or anything except the way her hand is pressing against his cock.  She rubs him through the fabric – once, twice – and then she's yanking the braces off his shoulders and unbuttoning his fly.  His uncovered erection nudges against her hand.

Catherine scowls.  "You're ready for action.  You must have thought that I was a sure thing."

Hal shakes his head.  "Military underwear chafes dreadfully." He holds his breath, then her hand is on him and he has to choke down a moan.  Her guards have excellent hearing, and he doesn't want to have to clean their blood out of the carpet.

Slowly, carefully, he presses his lips to her throat and sucks on her racing pulse.  Her breath catches, but her body gives an instinctive twitch, ready to fight, and there's a stake digging into his side.  She won't need it.  He wants her warm, wants her alive and moving – moving against him, like she's doing now, hips rubbing against his.  He burrows through the layers of coat and tunic and trousers, down to –

"Silk?"

"A lady is entitled to the odd luxury, even in wartime."

He thrusts a finger inside her, and the way she groans makes his cock throb harder.  He presses his thumb against her, grinding hard enough to make her gasp and arch against him.  He pulls his finger out and licks it: sharp, animal tang and salty arousal.

"Delicious."

Her fingers close around him again – calloused but very, very nimble – but he needs more, needs to sink into her tight heat.  Her boots have too many laces: they'll have to stay.  The trousers, too.  He spins them round, and now it's Catherine's back that thumps into the rows of books, but when he tries to turn her to face the bookshelves she wrenches free.

"I want you where I can see you," she snarls.

Which is going to be awkward – the angle's all wrong – but they grapple and twist, and he's in.  Just a little, not enough, and then Catherine shifts and tilts her hips, and that's it.  A low noise vibrates through her, vibrates through him, urging him on, fast and urgent, and neither of them is in the mood for finesse.

She's slick, and he almost slips out – they freeze, poised precariously, and he clutches her closer and drives back in.  Catherine's breath pants hotly in his ear with every wonderful, frantic thrust, and her curls are clinging damply to her cheek, but she challenges him with a stare.

"I thought," she gasps, "you were going to make me scream."

She laughs, and he laughs with her, but he drives in harder, sending an avalanche of books hurtling to the floor.  And, god, he's close, so he braces them with one hand and sends the other wriggling between them, down to where they're joined, and then neither of them is laughing any more.

Catherine doesn't scream, but she does leave teeth marks in his epaulette.

  
 


End file.
